


Blessed Hands - My Friend Through Many Dangers

by ArvenaPeredhel



Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28282320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Maitimo's first official act upon reunion with his brothers? The horses come back to Mithrim.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658740
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Blessed Hands - My Friend Through Many Dangers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a preview of what’s to come in Blessed Hands. It can be read as a standalone work, and it takes place some time in the future from where Blessed Hands is as of December 2020. Enjoy this glimpse into what’s to come!

The morning was cool, and just settling into itself, when Nolofinwë stepped through the doors of the great house and onto its modest portico. A mug of tea was in his hand, and for once he carried nothing else, all proposals and paperwork forgotten. The Sun was rising, turning the world from dim blue to pale gold and catching the mist hovering over the water in its light, and the air was full of birdsong despite the cooling weather and the ever-nearing frosts. Somehow, impossibly, they had all grown used to this strange, abrupt cycle of cold-hot-cold-again, learning to harvest their crops and hunt their game in a handful of short weeks before the land was blanketed in snow and the lake froze over. By now, his people were learned scholars of the Hither Shores and their capricious, difficult moods, and he was unspeakably proud of them.

The High King of the Noldor East of the Sea sighed, and shook his head, and sat down on the steps of the great house, his knees sticking out at awkward angles. There was no truly _elegant_ way to go about drinking tea in the early morning, unless he wished to steal Maitimo’s wheeled seat that had gathered dust since three cold seasons past and set it in the sands before the lake. For a moment he considered it - surely, anything would be more comfortable than this undignified sprawl, and despite the early hours _someone_ was always awake to care for crops or livestock and might see him lounging about like a fool - and then shook his head again. Once his tea was gone, and the Sun was above the distant trees, he would have to face another day of duty, and there was no sense in wasting his precious solitude chasing after a chair. He took a sip from his still-full mug and considered what lay before him before that night’s dinner and a few hours of sleep.

Findekáno had been quiet the previous evening, doing his very best to conceal his disappointment at his husband’s absence. Despite all concerns, Maitimo had returned to his own host and his brothers, and as the night had passed _without_ his unexpected and frantic return to their encampment, the safest conclusion was that he’d been received back into his family without a fuss. 

_Or else they killed him,_ Nolofinwë thought, only half-serious. The odds of his _hánoyon_ dying without Findekáno knowing immediately were quite slim, considering how close they’d kept to one another and how strong their bond must doubtless be thanks to their efforts to build it, and whatever Maitimo thought of his family it was at least unlikely that they’d attempt a second Kinslaying so soon after their first disastrous encounter with such things. No, it was far more likely, and far more _desirable,_ that the six remaining Fëanárion princes had embraced their long-lost eldest brother and the gaping wounds in their hearts had at last begun to heal.

_If only every absence could be so easily repaired._

Nolofinwë glanced down into his tea, staring at his own reflection; not for the first time, he felt Anairë’s absence keenly and wondered what sort of idiot idea it had been to refuse her offer to come with him. 

_“We are at war,”_ his past self said in his memory, an echo of a conversation he’d played out countless times on the Ice when the darkness and the wind seemed especially cold, _“and I would not have you risk yourself unduly, my love.”_

 _“So your answer to war is departure for battle without your heart, your spine, the calculating edge of your thought?”_ she had retorted, eyebrow raised; both of them knew she was right. 

_And yet I was a fool and begged you to stay behind,_ he thought, eyes flicking out over the lake as if he could catch glimpses of her in the mist and the water. It was something of an open secret that Nolofinwë Finwion was ruled by his lady wife, that she alone held the vast secrets of his heart and every one of his smiles was in part for her, and her absence on these Hither Shores was a gaping wound he paid very little mind to in the vain hope it would not destroy him. 

_My sons are happy, for the most part,_ he told himself, _and my daughter is restless but contented, and my sister is a welcome partner in all I could possibly do, and my people are thriving here despite the odds that are stacked against us. That is enough. It can be enough._

_It must be enough._

Another sigh, another fatigued consideration of that day. Isilórë wanted his attention at the forge, to demonstrate their progress in crafting a plow, and it was at last time to put aside harvesting in favor of earnest preparations for the frost and the long cold season that left the land blanketed with snow. He was surprised that there had not yet been a true freeze, and yet could not find it in himself to complain about the mild evenings.

_And yet…_

Nolofinwë glanced down at the lake again, this time eyes sharply examining the waves as they lapped upon the shore. Sometimes there was ice there as a result of the night’s coldest hours, a sign of things to come and a few days’ worth of warning for hard weather; now would be an ideal time to see for himself if this was the case. 

_At best, I’ll be able to warn everyone that they’ll need to prepare for Valar know how long trapped indoors,_ he thought, awkwardly getting to his feet and striding down to the lake, mug of tea still in hand. _At worst, I’ll look the fool, up to my ankles in water as I stare down at the muck. I suppose whoever sees me could use the laugh._

It took him only a few moments to reach his destination, and he held back from moving into the water proper - there was still a chill in the air, no matter how mild the weather had been - and scanned the ground before him for any signs of ice. When at last he saw the lingering edges of it, clinging to the sand before the Sun could melt it away, he had to hold back a quiet, self-congratulatory murmur. It would not do for the High King of the Noldor to be known as a _nér_ who praised himself for ice-spotting. 

_We’ll have a hard freeze by tomorrow,_ he realized. _I’ll let my council know this morning._ Already he dreaded the inevitable clash with Rániel, chief of all his advisors and (in her words) a professional contrarian; she had advocated for everyone to move into winter lodgings by tonight, and had been proven right to do so. 

_I hope she’s nice about gloating,_ Nolofinwë thought, shaking his head and draining the last of his tea in one long swallow. _Even if I_ do _appreciate her for it._ She, more than any other in his inner circle, acted as a counterbalance to his desires, forcing him to defend them and to consider every alternative, and so she’d proven to be one of his most trusted assets in these uncertain times. _Appointing her was a wise move. Anairë would be proud of me._

But before he could think further on this, the calm quiet of the cool morning was shattered by a strange, almost soft rustling noise. He frowned, tensing. It was too late in the year for birds, who seemed to predict the coming of the cold and flew in great clouds to someplace south of Misrim, and there was none of the telltale rustle of leaves to betray the presence of a silent winged watcher. The noise continued, almost resembling the sound of cloth on cloth, with no footsteps to accompany it and give it some identity beyond mere existence.

 _Why in Arda am I worrying?_ Nolofinwë thought suddenly, almost laughing at himself. _We_ have _guards posted - if someone meant to kill me, they would in fact be seen and stopped, and besides, didn’t Indîrië put out some of the healers’ robes to dry on the line yesterday? Small wonder if she’s out collecting them now they’ve had a chance to finish. Though I’ll have to ask if anything truly_ dries _once the temperature dips low enough to freeze -_

He turned on his heel, a smile ready on his lips and a greeting rising in his throat, and froze in place, staring at the scene before him. 

In the flat grass beside the house, filling the space between the outer wall of the front room and one of the small wooden cabins that served as a watch-house for the patrols of guards, were perhaps twoscore horses, standing still and grazing or glancing from him to the trees to the grass and back again. None were saddled or bridled, and somehow they’d managed to slip inside the camp without attracting attention from anyone. Nolofinwë realized as he watched them that they were too broad, too tall, to be Sindarin-bred - they were nothing like the skittish, fine-boned things that currently resided in their small stable and barely came up to his shoulder. These were massive, powerful, deep-chested mounts who stood taller than he was at the withers.

 _These are_ Noldorin _horses,_ he realized, and his breath caught as he watched them. _But - how - ?_

The sound that had caught his attention in the first place resumed, and he turned yet again to find its source. Quickly enough, he discovered it - a broad-backed dapple-grey was mouthing at poor Indîrië’s laundry. The stallion - it _was_ a stallion, that much was plain - was nearly white in his face and across his back and chest, with a pale mane and tail closer to silver than starlight; the rest of his coat grew nearer and nearer to a true dark grey until his legs were almost solid. He stood slightly apart from the rest of the herd, ears pricked up to keep alert for any danger, but the bulk of his attention seemed to be taken up with the robe currently in between his lips. 

Nolofinwë found he couldn’t move, or speak. His heart was in his throat, and there were hot, unexpected tears pricking at his eyes. The hand that held his empty mug was shaking; he could feel the fired clay trembling against his robe. 

_I know you,_ he thought, too shocked to keep his thoughts to himself. He felt them cast themselves out over the lake and the grass and the sand, rebounding on empty air. _I know you…_

He blinked, and as he blinked, the world slid between dawn and darkness, between _now_ and _then._ The tears fell from his eyes, and he didn’t bother to wipe them, too astonished to do aught else but endure. 

* * *

_“It’s only a few hours,” he promised, and Roccolórë looked at him sharply, ears back and eyes wide. Neither he nor the ten mares chosen to accompany him had taken well to their temporary quarters in the hold of the swan-ship, and their discomfort and fear was enough to unsettle him. He wondered for what felt like the thousandth time if the dearly-bought boats were truly worth all that they’d cost their new owners, and if his beloved mount’s unease was some sort of omen._

_“Trust me,” he said, almost imploringly, and the stallion let him run a hand over arched neck and tensed muscles, as if accepting his decision._

_“I will be with them for the whole of the voyage,” Tyelkormo said from behind him, unexpected and nearly frightening him. He turned to see his_ hánoyon _standing at the bottom of the stairs down into the hold._

_“You will?” Nolofinwë asked. “Will that be removing you from some other duty?”_

_“No,” the other_ nér _said, shrugging. “Huan’s on deck so he won’t spook them, and seeing as I can_ talk _to them, Atar thought it best that I remain here.”_

_“We’re taking more livestock than horses, and in greater numbers.”_

_“And the horses are the most valuable for their scarcity,” Tyelkormo said, crossing over to introduce himself to Roccolórë. The stallion nosed at his hand briefly, enough to accept his scent, and then returned his full attention to Nolofinwë._

_“I know,” he murmured, “and I’ll be joining you soon, I promise you. But Fëanáro’s folk are good, and will look after you. They offered to cross first and take the brunt of any danger, and spare us in the larger host the trouble of unloading our grain and tools and clothes and animals, and I won’t pass up this chance to make right this old rift. I trust them with you. Please?”_

_The horse snorted, but didn’t protest when he took his hand away._

_“Soon,” he promised, and gave Roccolórë a final scratch on the nose before turning toward the stairs._

_“You’ll look after him?” he asked Tyelkormo._

_“I will,” the_ nér _said. “You’ve my word.”_

* * *

He was weeping openly now, shocked out of his trance by a gasp for breath, and his noise had caught the attention of the stallion. It _was_ Roccolórë, there was no doubting it - the face was the same, and the pattern of dark and light grey dappling together matched exactly, and more to the point, both ears were pricked forward and he was studying his observer intently, making an expression so familiar it was heartbreaking. 

“Lórë?” Nolofinwë said, and suddenly the stallion was coming across the grass toward him, almost prancing as he came closer and closer. He hit the sands at a trot, making a tight turn about the watching High King, eyes bright. The _elda_ within the circle of his hoofprints couldn’t help but laugh - Roccolórë was in high spirits, too pleased to stand still for very long. But at last he _did_ slow, coming to a halt before his rider and nosing him all over; he struck arm and wrist at just the right angle to force the mug of tea to fall to the sand where it was almost immediately forgotten.

“I know,” Nolofinwë said, still laughing. “I’ve lost rather a lot of weight since I saw you last.” _I wonder if that’s what took him so long to recognize me._

Roccolórë nibbled at nearly every inch of his arms and shoulders, growing more and more excited as he did so, practically dancing out of his rider’s attempts to pet him. At last, he broke into another trot, prancing back and forth eagerly and tossing his head. 

“It’s almost as if you’re trying to speak to me,” Nolofinwë said aloud, chuckling and at last wiping away his tears just in time for a very sticky tongue to run up and down his face. “All right. What have you got to show me?”

The stallion glanced over his back at the gathered herd and then looked at Nolofinwë, tail swishing. 

“Oh, so it’s _yours?”_ he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose you want me to come and meet every one of your many wives.” 

Roccolórë snorted again, but turned in a neat circle and trotted up the sloping shoreline to the grass with a spring in his stride that Nolofinwë might have imagined. The _elda_ shook his head and began to follow, all thoughts of other duties far from his mind. 

Suddenly, the quiet of the morning was shattered by a joyous shriek.

_“Alcarílë?!”_

Írissë had thrown her shutters open, and was half-crawling half-leaping from her bedroom window with a white robe trailing behind her until she could cross the grass at a run. She threw her arms about the neck of a pale mare who was nearly white save for her dark mane and tail, at once weeping and laughing. She was quickly joined by both her brothers and by a drowsy Itarillë, all seemingly roused from sleep by her cry. Neither Turukáno nor Findekáno had mounts to meet - they’d elected to leave their horses in Aman, in safety - but they stared at the horses with eyes that seemed as big as apples. 

“How?” the younger of Nolofinwë’s sons asked, watching his father follow the still-trotting Roccolórë through the herd. 

Findekáno spoke, and though his father couldn’t see him, the smile on his lips was evident. 

“Maitimo,” he said. “Maitimo has done this.” 

Turukáno scoffed, but even he could find nothing more to say against his cousin. Instead, he knelt down by his daughter, quietly speaking to her - Nolofinwë could catch edges of his words, and they brought a smile to his lips for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. _Names. He’s telling her their names._

Indeed, he saw each of the horses he’d known in Aman - his own stallion, and his daughter’s Alcarílë, and the three shadow-dark mares that had been the pride of Finwë’s stables, and a score of beasts he didn’t know by name but that had belonged to Fëanáro’s host. His brother’s Nartalaitë was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the horses belonging to the rest of that family; he guessed that Maitimo had seen fit to leave them _something_ in the wake of what must have been a shocking restitution. 

“What is it you mean to show me?” he asked Roccolórë at last, when the horse finally came to a halt. Before them both was a striking mare, just as tall as the others in the herd and yet finer-boned in her legs and almost delicate by comparison. Her coat was a solid stone-grey, with none of the dappling that had become the signature of the royal line, and she looked up at Nolofinwë with wide, intelligent eyes before returning her attention to her grazing. Her mane was long and creamy-white to match her tail, trailing to the ground when she bent her head.

She was not alone. 

Beneath her belly, completely consumed with the business of breakfast, was a gangly foal. It was unsteady on awkward, too-long legs, and yet its determination seemed to overshadow any handicap. Twice, it almost fell over, saved at the last second by haphazard steps from one side to the other, until at last it drew away from its dam, looking extremely satisfied with itself. 

Nolofinwë knelt, one hand extended in greeting; the mare looked at him sharply before catching his scent and watching how her stallion seemed to relax beside this strange _elda_. Roccolórë, for his part, kept glancing from the foal to his rider and back again, as if gesturing at the babe.

“Hello, little one,” the High King murmured, smiling as the tiny beast danced back beneath its mother as his arm drifted toward it. “Welcome to the world, odd and improper as it is.” He wondered how old it was, and then guessed it had to be young indeed - doubtless Maitimo wouldn’t have expected the herd to journey around the lake if he’d known of such a young addition to their numbers. _It must have been born between now and his release,_ he guessed, smiling more broadly as the tiny creature cautiously sniffed at his proffered hand from the safety of its mother’s legs. _No wonder it’s so unsteady._

“She’s lovely,” a second voice said; he looked over his shoulder to find his sister Lalwendë examining the scene. “Is she spoken for?”

“No,” Nolofinwë said. “As far as I know, at least, she belongs to - well, she _was_ Fëanárian.”

“Hah,” the _nís_ said, chuckling. “She’s too fine for one of _them.”_

“Be nice, Lal. It’s a Fëanárion who’s done this for us.” 

“And? I can still pass judgment, can I not?”

“I suppose,” the other _nér_ said, laughing himself as a delicate tongue danced out over his fingers, testing them. The foal snorted, and shook its head, and turned its attention back to its mother and more milk. 

“You didn’t pass muster,” his sister said. “Serves you right, you’re far too imposing for such a small thing.”

“Me? Imposing?” He wiped his hand on his robe and got back to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height in a half-serious effort to look intimidating; Lalwendë cuffed him soundly across the shoulders with the flat of her hand and laughed when all the air came rushing out of him at a gasp.

“You make an excellent point, brother,” she mused. “Not imposing at all. I wonder what it is, then?”

“I’d guess it’s that I can’t give him the rest of his breakfast.”

“Him? You got a good enough look to be sure?”

“No. Call it a decent guess.”

“Fair enough.” 

They watched the mare and foal for a moment longer, before the sudden sound of hooves on the earth distracted them both. Írissë was astride Alcarílë, her long white robe forgotten in the grass, and they were flying away toward the treeline at a gallop, the wind mingling mane and hair until the _eldar_ on the ground could scarcely tell the difference. Nolofinwë caught a brief glance of a dazzling smile as his daughter looked back at the herd and her family, and then her mount was soaring over a split-rail fence as if it were a low root clinging to mossy earth and they were gone.

“We’ll see her in a week, I’d guess,” Lalwendë murmured with a laugh.

“Or the first time it snows,” the High King agreed. “Which might be as soon as the day after tomorrow.”

“What are we going to do about all of _them?”_ Lalwendë asked, gesturing at the horses. “We haven’t got the stables for - how many are there?”

“I’d guess almost thirty,” Turukáno said. He and his daughter had come up behind their elders, with Findekáno beside them. “Keeping them warm _will_ be a problem.”

“I could keep Roccolórë, and this mare and her foal, in my own room,” Nolofinwë said. 

“You could _not,”_ Lalwendë scoffed. “I know you _wish_ to, brother-mine, but - well, _look_ at them! Where would you sleep?”

“In my study.”

“Which will doubtless be given up to another horse.”

“Lal - !”

“Don’t ‘Lal’ me. We need _help._ Proper help. It’s not fair to expect these fine beasts to be out in the cold all winter, and we _cannot_ have them in our own rooms, they weren’t _built_ for it. And don’t give me that look, either! Imagine mucking out a study every day!”

“Are you saying it’s a bad thing we have horses?” Turukáno asked, and his _atarnésa_ frowned, sighing.

“No,” she said. “I only wish we’d had a little more _warning.”_

“I imagine he’d wanted to keep it a surprise,” Findekáno said. “Maitimo, I mean.”

“We know who you mean,” Turukáno said, with more than a little venom. 

“Rudeness is unnecessary,” Nolofinwë cut in, interrupting the argument he could feel already brewing. “We were given an earnest and well-intended gift. And I suppose what comes next is a bit of a challenge.”

“Oh?” Turukáno asked. “What sort of challenge?”

“Well,” the High King said, “I spotted ice on the lakeshore not half an hour ago.” He ran his eyes over the faces of his family, satisfied that they understood the gravity of what he said. 

“We’ll be seeing a deep freeze in two days,” Findekáno said.

“We need a stable,” Lalwendë added.

“We needed a stable _yesterday,”_ Turukáno corrected. “We’ll never get one built in - two days, you said, Finno?”

“I did.” 

“Damn.” 

“Oh, don’t be such a cynic, Turukáno,” Lalwendë said. “There’s an obvious solution to this problem.”

“What, send the horses back for the cold months and hope they’ll be returned?”

“No,” Nolofinwë said, already guessing what his sister meant. “We raise the stable before the snow falls.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Turukáno said. “I hadn’t realized I was in the company of lunatics.”

“Hardly lunatics,” Findekáno said. “Atya, may I take Roccolórë? We’ll make the journey in half the time.” 

“And who said I was sending _you_ with my request?” Nolofinwë asked, barely restraining a bark of laughter at his eldest’s astonished face. “It’s a jest, _yonya._ Yes. Take him, if he’ll bear you.”

“Tell them we’ll need lumber for - make it thirty-two stalls, would you?” Lalwendë asked as Findekáno shrugged out of his own robe and vaulted onto Roccolórë’s back. “And put some boots on!”

“Who needs boots when I’m riding?” he shot back, grinning. 

“For the love of Vána, put some clothes on,” Nolofinwë ordered, “else our kin across the lake think we’ve all lost our senses.”

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Turukáno demanded. 

“Simple,” Findekáno said, dismounting with a disappointed sigh and picking up his robe again.. “I’m riding to the Fëanárian settlement, and telling Maitimo that we need craftspeople and lumber and tools, to build a stable large enough for all our mounts before the snow falls.”

“And I’m waking our own host,” Lalwendë said, “and putting them to work seeking out lumber on our side as well.”

“Will that Sindarin king Greycloak accept such an action?” Turukáno asked.

“He will when I explain it was this or let the animals freeze,” Nolofinwë said. “I’ll draft a letter and send Angaráto to their sentries with it before midday.”

“Where does that leave _me?”_

“Lighten up a little?” Findekáno suggested, moving towards his own open window.

“Practice your smile?” Lalwendë said, teasing him.

“Watch the horses,” Nolofinwë ordered. “And tell Itarillë that they’re gentle but they’re only now meeting her.” 

Turukáno paled - in the press of rapid-fire questions and answers, he’d quite lost track of his daughter. He nodded, vanishing into the herd and calling her name.

“Well?” Nolofinwë called to his eldest. “The faster you dress, the faster you can be on your way!”

“Right!” Findekáno answered, climbing back into his room and closing the shutters behind him.

He dressed quickly, sliding out of the loose-fitting shirt and trousers he’d been spending his nights in and wiping the dew and dirt from his feet. It was easy enough to find something to wear, and soon he was clad in brown leggings and a long-sleeved linen shirt under a tunic dyed blue and bordered in silver ribbon. Then came stockings, and his work boots, and the fur-lined cloak he’d had these past few cold seasons in case the morning’s warmth gave way to chill. His hair was already down his back in a single low braid, and he made a note in his thoughts to ask if his _atarnésa_ would consider braiding it properly once all this was past them. Then it was out of his room again, this time through the door into the hall, where he brushed past his valet Súlwë with an apologetic smile. Breakfast was on the table in the main room; he seized a scone and downed a mug of tea in two swallows. He could feel questioning eyes on him, but he ignored them - surely, they could look outside and see for themselves what was happening - in favor of practically dashing out the door and down the front steps. 

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked his father, who was standing by Roccolórë waiting for him.

“Yes,” Nolofinwë said, and drew him close into a tight embrace. “Give Maitimo my love in addition to your own, would you?”

“Of course,” he answered, vaulting back onto Roccolórë a second time. 

“And tell him to bring _mounting blocks,”_ his father said. 

“Right,” Findekáno agreed, wincing. “Sorry.”

“It can’t be helped - in this case.”

“In this case,” he said. “May we go?”

“You may,” Nolofinwë said. “Don’t tarry. I _do_ need you back by today.”

Findekáno nodded, guiding Roccolórë into a turn with his knee; he shifted his weight and cued the stallion into a canter. For his part, the horse sprang forward almost instantly, as if he were just as eager to run as his rider. He leapt over the same fence that Írissë and Alcarílë had cleared earlier, though Findekáno kept him close to the lakeshore, using the water as a guide. He’d made the same journey just hours ago, on a smaller, lighter mount; the two rides were as night and day. Roccolórë sped along the ground as if ceasing would slay him, eating up furlong after furlong in a smooth gallop that he’d fallen into without being cued. Beside them, their reflections raced along the lake, matching them pace for pace. 

Unlike his father, and his sister, Findekáno had never considered himself especially bound to horses; regardless, he couldn’t deny that the experience of practically flying along the ground, chasing the last of the night’s mists, was something special. The Sun had finally fully risen, and the air was rosy and golden and warm despite the way his breath hung before him for half a heartbeat, and he could hear birdsong in the distance. It would have been beautiful at any moment, but now it seemed to bind him in a near-enchantment, burning itself into his memory. 

And then it was gone, lost behind them like so much else. Roccolórë was impossibly fast, when he gave himself fully to it, and he seemed to sense how urgent their errand was. 

_Oh, Maitimo,_ Findekáno thought, _I hope you’re awake!_

* * *

“You did _what?”_

“I did what you should have done when the Sun first rose,” Maitimo said, trying and failing to keep an annoyed edge from his voice, “and I gave them back their horses.”

“But Nelyo - !”

“Don’t ‘but Nelyo’ me, Tyelkormo! What did you expect I would do? Permit us to keep claiming ownership of animals we have no right to?”

“That’s _over half our herd!”_

“I don’t see why you’re complaining,” Moryo commented from the other side of the breakfast table. “It’s not as if _your_ horse left with them.”

“That’s not the point!”

“No,” Curufinwë said dourly, “the _point_ is that he’s displeased, so the rest of us have to shoulder the burden of it, because he’s too immature to carry it for himself.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Tyelkormo asked. 

“Only when I’m asked very nicely,” his younger brother commented with an insincere, too-saccharine smile. “Are you asking nicely now?”

“Listen, you - !”

“Excuse me, my lords?” 

This was a new, slightly uncertain voice. Maitimo held up his left hand, and the sight of it caused his three still-eating brothers to fall silent. 

“Yes?” he asked, looking up at the open door and the liveried servant who stood there. “What is it?”

“You’ve a guest, _aran-nînya.”_

“At this hour of the morning? I thought all our nobles were with Makalaurë and Ambarussa.”

“He’s not exactly one of our nobles, _aran-nînya.”_

“Then who is he?” Tyelkormo asked in between bites of egg-and-tuber pie. “A craftsman?”

“The name I was given is ‘Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion,’” the servant said, and before he finished speaking Maitimo was already out of his chair. 

_“Him?”_ Tyelkormo asked.

“What does _he_ want?” Curufinwë muttered at the same time. 

“Shut up, both of you,” Moryo supplied, “or else Nelyo will throw you out on your ears.”

“He will _not,”_ both _néri_ said at once, but their brother gave them a look that made them fall silent a second time. 

“Show him into the front room, if you would,” Maitimo said. “I’ll speak to him there.” 

“Already done, _aran-nînya._ He’s waiting for you.”

“Good. I’ll make sure to see him out.”

“And I’ll make sure you’re left alone,” Moryo said, looking coolly at his brothers. “Don’t worry.”

Maitimo’s lip twitched up into a half-smile for a moment, and then he was striding out the door, following the subdued _nér._ In a handful of heartbeats, he was at the door to the small front room that had clearly been intended to receive visitors, and he opened the door with his left hand and stepped inside. 

“You said goodbye to me not twenty hours ago,” he said, smiling when Findekáno flinched and sat up straighter in his high-backed chair. “Am I that irresistible to you?”

“Always,” his husband said, smiling at him, “but I come on that most odious of errands: official business.”

“Oh?” Maitimo asked, sitting beside him in an equally uncomfortable chair. “What sort of official business?”

“Maitimo, you gave us thirty horses and no stable to house them in.”

“... ah.”

“And Atya says we’ll get a freeze sooner rather than later.” 

“Nolofinwë has taken up weather divining?”

“There was ice on the lakeshore this morning.”

“Oh,” the other _nér_ said, and then sighed, the air bleeding out of him in one long breath. “Damn it all, I ought to have thought of that.”

“Maybe,” Findekáno said, “but I know you’ve made everyone there happier than they guessed they could be, so - well, it rather balances out, doesn’t it?”

“What can we do?” Maitimo asked. “Name it.”

“Lend us every woodworker and carpenter in your little town for two days,” Findekáno said. “And every tool you’ve got for carving and hammering timber. And lumber. And - !”

“All right, all right,” Maitimo said, shaking his head. “I understand. Your father wants a stable built by two nights from now.”

“He does. We haven’t the space for our horses anywhere else.”

“Then he’ll have it,” he said, standing up, “or he’ll have something as near to it as we can come.”

“That won’t cause too much trouble among your people?” Findekáno asked, rising himself. 

“If it does, I’ll just glare at them,” Maitimo admitted with a wry smile, “or I’ll lift up my poor maimed arm, like so, and they’ll feel horribly guilty and do anything I want.”

“Somehow I foresee you getting quite a lot of use out of that arm,” Findekáno said, smiling back. “Unless you tire of pity, of course.”

“I shan’t tire of pity that gets me what I ask for until several _yéni_ have passed,” the other _nér_ retorted. 

“I shall hold you to that,” he answered, and suddenly realized how close they were to one another when he tried to take a step forward and was halted by several feet of Maitimo. He looked up, a blush already rising in his cheeks, to find his husband’s eyes burning silver. 

“Yes?” he asked, flailing to find words and hoping that no one would notice how unusually tight his leggings had become when he left the manor house. 

“You came all this way to see me,” Maitimo said. “I’ll have at least one kiss.” 

His blush deepened, and Maitimo’s amusement grew, pricking at their bond. He chuckled, pushing himself up on his toes so that his husband didn’t have to bend double to find his lips. Their kiss was short, too short, and when they pulled away he shook his head and drew the taller _nér_ back down to him a second time, and then a third.

“You might be able to get away with spending the night in my room,” he said, “if you bother to help us with this stable-raising.” There was heat in his voice, and he could feel his husband’s response riding against his hip.

“Tease,” Maitmo muttered.

“No worse than you, with your talk,” Findekáno said. “‘I’ll have at least one kiss’ - and here I have to walk back _out_ of this house the same way I came _into_ it.”

“Meanwhile _I_ must go back and finish breakfast with _Tyelkormo,”_ his husband retorted. “Tit for tat, I’d call it.”

“Maybe,” Findekáno mused. “I could always go out the window, and _you_ could always follow me.”

“Hah,” Maitimo answered. “Hardly. But you’d best go, if you mean to make it back ere we do. How did you come here so quickly, anyway?” 

“Roccolórë,” Findekáno explained. “I think he longed for the run.” 

“Of course. Do you think he can make the trip back just as easily?”

“I do, or else I’d stay with you.”

“Good,” Maitimo said, at last letting him go. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

“It’s a very silly sort of goodbye,” Findekáno corrected. “I say we call it ‘until this afternoon.’”

“I like that much better,” Maitimo said. They hadn’t stopped staring at one another. “Until this afternoon, then.” He rang a small bell that was on a table by their chairs, to signal for the servant to return.

“I’ll be counting every second,” Findekáno said, stepping away from him. Just as the door opened, though, he spun round on his heel, faster than a flash of lightning, to press a final kiss to his husband’s cheek. 

_I’ll see you later,_ he said silently, slipping from the room as suddenly as he’d come into it. _Don’t let your brothers be too beastly._

Maitimo was silent, his left hand raised to his face where Findekáno’s lips had been, but he watched his husband ride away until he couldn’t see either _elda_ or horse anymore.

 _We have an awful lot of work to do,_ he thought. _I’d best get started._


End file.
